by Brenda Joyce
“I’m sorry,” Edward said again. “What happened to the other man?”
“He was never found.”
And then Edward knew. He knew. He turned to stare at Jake O’Neil’s portrait. You son of a bitch, he was thinking, torn between admiration and anger. You’re alive, aren’t you? Alive and hiding? But don’t you want to see your daughter again? How could you stay away from her like this? And why were you stalking me the other day?!
Jake O’Neil stared back at him, his golden eyes arrogant and mocking.
“Edward?”
He turned and saw that Sofie’s amber eyes were huge, her face pale. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to bring up a painful topic.”
“I will always miss him,” she said simply.
Instantly Edward knew that he was going to find Jake O’Neil and make the bastard come forward to a reunion with his daughter. Suddenly that seemed as important as anything else. Then he was struck by a thought. Jake O’Neil was alive—but Suzanne had remarried. He turned to look at Sofie, who was watching him, trying to imagine the scandal should Jake’s public resurrection ever occur. He flinched, because he did not have to be a wizard to know that a lot of people would be hurt. Was that why Jake had remained dead and buried all these years? Perhaps he did not give a damn about his wife or his daughter. Perhaps he cared too much. In any case, Edward intended to find out.
“Edward?” she said, her voice low and hesitant. “What, exactly, do you think of my work?”
Edward took her arm, moving her with him to stand in front of the floral. He looked at the vibrant still life. “This is my favorite. I don’t know how anyone could make a few simple flowers so exciting.”
“Suzanne saw this in May,” Sofie said slowly, her cheeks coloring slightly. “She said they don’t even remotely resemble flowers. She said a five-year-old could paint flowers like that.”
Edward jerked. “I can’t believe she said that.”
Sofie’s gaze was intense. “You don’t agree?”
“Hell, no! I like this painting best.”
“You like my work?”
He turned to her. Very softly, he said, “Very much. You are brilliant, Sofie.”
She ducked her head. He realized that she must seldom hear praise for her work from her own family. Edward turned to stroll around the room, glancing out the windows into the garden. But as he approached the open doorway, only slightly curious about the rest of her studio, Sofie’s head jerked up. Harshly she cried, “Edward!” It was a warning.
He halted. She had turned ashen. “I am not allowed to go into the rest of your studio?”
She seemed incapable of speech.
Now Edward was very curious, because he knew that, once again, Sofie was hiding from him. “What is in the other room, Sofie?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Finally she croaked, “Something I have only just finished.”
Edward could not resist. He heard her moan as he moved decisively forward. But on the threshold of the second room, he froze, reeling with absolute shock.
This, apparently, was where she worked. The room was smaller but very light and bright, one entire wall consisting of floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was completely empty except for a large portrait, which stood on an easel in its center, and one small stool and table, the latter cluttered with tubes of paints and palettes and all size and manner of brushes. The smell within was strong, of oil paint and turpentine.
“Jesus,” he whispered, mesmerized. She had painted him.
And what a work it was. The canvas vibrated with tension and color, and Edward expected to see his image walk out of the painting and into the room at any moment. “Do I actually look like that?” he heard himself ask.
Sofie did not answer.
He stepped closer and paused again. There was such power and passion in this portrait that he was still stunned. He was also exultant. He turned to look at her, but she refused now to meet his gaze. She was blushing furiously.
Edward studied the portrait. Although his image leapt out of the canvas with lifelike clarity, it was as if Sofie had painted in a mad frenzy, her strokes shorter and more insistent, colors more vividly displayed, the background far less concise, almost a collage of rainbow colors, with soft shades of purple and yellow predominant. The work was tight, bright, and exuberant. It was joyous and hopeful. And she had portrayed him as a hero, not as the flawed man he knew himself to be.
“Say something,” Sofie said.
He turned to look at her, at a loss for words. “I am not a godamned hero,” he finally said.
She lifted her gaze. “I portrayed you as I recalled you.”
He turned back to the canvas and studied the image he saw there, and he wondered if there was really such a roguish, amused, and knowing sparkle in his eyes. He was hardly as handsome, as rakish, as disturbingly powerful, as she had portrayed him.
It finally dawned on him; in order for her to portray him as she had, she might very well be in love with him.
He froze, turned slowly, stared at her, his blood healing now dangerously. How could he direct her passion so that it never became anything more than a schoolgirl crush? And did he even want to?
“You are staring at me,” she said stiffly. “Are you shocked?”
At first he could not speak. He was appalled with his wayward thought. Shocked not with her, but with himself. “Yes.”
She turned away. “I thought so.”
He reached for her. “Sofie—I am shocked, but not the way you’re thinking.” Their gazes locked. He was aware of her arm beneath his hand, of the proximity of their bodies, of her slightly parted lips. Of the now insistent and heavy pulsing between his thighs. “I’m honored, Sofie,” he said low.
She stared, unblinking.
He had already realized that she had worked on his portrait with great stamina and great passion. He now wondered what it would be like to receive that passion directly from her, as a lover would. “I’m shocked because I never expected to find my own portrait here. I’m shocked because, although I am no connoisseur, this is so damn good.”
Sofie inhaled hard, holding his gaze.
Edward felt the heat flare between them, wondered if he had even seen a jagged line of white light, akin to a bolt of lightning. “You just completed this?”
“I finished it this morning.”
“You worked on my portrait last night?”
“Yes.” She was strained, her voice low, husky. “Usually it takes me several days or even several weeks to complete an oil, but I began your portrait last night—and finished it at dawn.”
His jaw flexed. His body blazed to life. Edward forgot his image on the canvas behind him. His hands touched her shoulders. Sofie shuddered visibly, but made no attempt to resist or move away.
“Sofie,” he said huskily, “I am more than honored.”
Her lips parted as he pulled her slowly forward and into his arms. “Edward,” she began hoarsely.
He smiled down at her, his pulses rioting, sliding his hands down her slim but strong back. She inhaled as he pressed her against the full length of his hard, aroused body. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips just above the tempting curve of her buttocks. “Relax,” he whispered, lowering his head. “I’m going to kiss you, Sofie, and I want you to relax and enjoy it.”
She made a sound very much like a whimper, looking into his eyes with both desire and despair. “I’m not sure,” she said, anguished. “I haven’t made up my mind.”
Edward did not really understand her remark, and did not care to, not now. Not when he had just realized that Sofie had melted against him, despite her words, and that her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket. He was instantly aware of the softness of her breasts crushed against his chest, of his phallus lengthening even more in eager response, and straining high against her soft, warm belly. The heat between them coursed electric and red-hot.
“For you, Sofie, just for you,” he murmu
red, rubbing his mouth against her cheek. And then his lips brushed hers, soft and gentle, and then tenderness was lost to lust.
The passion exploded in him so quickly that Edward was helpless to defy it. His mouth took hers, Sofie’s gasp was smothered by the invasion of his tongue. And Edward felt as if he had finally reached heaven as he sucked her mouth with his the way he had been dreaming of doing for days.
For a long time they kissed, tongue to tongue, his huge, hardened loins burning against hers. Edward scraped the wetness of her mouth dry, invaded as deeply as he knew how, wanting to show her with his tongue what he could do to her with his manhood. Sofie’s tongue flicked ever so lightly against his. Edward made a sound, half gasp, half growl, and found himself gripping her buttocks now, and pressing her up against his erection. He expected her to reject this overt intimacy, but Sofie did not stiffen. Instead, her mouth opened wider for him and she began to spar with him. He heard her whimper.
Edward began to rock himself against her very intently, perilously close to losing control. His hands slid lower on Sofie’s bottom, indecently so. A remnant of sanity returned to him, warningly.
He closed his eyes hard and succumbed just for another instant to the illicit pleasure of the wet and thrusting kiss and to the raw agony of holding her in his arms while he throbbed and pulsed against her. She was panting. He derived immense satisfaction from the fact and was aroused impossibly more. Yet he wished to hear her moan in need, in ecstasy. With complete abandon. But he dared not prolong the encounter, dared not go any further, for if he did, he was afraid there would be no turning back.
And if he seduced Sofie, he could not live with himself.
Groaning, Edward tore his mouth from hers, forcing his eyes open. Her thighs still pressed against his, and he was very reluctant to move away, but finally he did, putting a few inches between their straining, overheated bodies. Startled, Sofie lifted her lids, and he saw that her gaze was glazed and unfocused and that she was flushed with genuine desire.
He was more tempted than he had ever been. He’d never had to fight the urges of his body before. Not like this. But of course, he’d never played this kind of game before, had never kissed a woman only to teach her to live and not to teach her to love. He swallowed hard and shifted away from her completely, pressing his cheek into the wall beside her, ignoring her small, raw cry, which only increased his excitement.
It was many minutes before he could move, and by then, she had slipped away from her position next to him. Edward straightened, inhaled deeply, turned. Sofie stood with her back to him, hugging herself tightly.
“Sofie?”
She stiffened, then slowly faced him.
He had been afraid she would be furious, but there was no trace of anger in her expression. Indeed, she was remarkably composed, far more so than he. But by now he knew that she wore her dignity about her as one would a big, hooded cloak—the better to hide behind. He smiled. “If you tell me I am a cad, Sofie, I will not blame you.”
She searched his gaze. Her lips were very swollen. “Are you a cad, Edward?”
His smile disappeared. “To steal that kind of kiss? Yes. Unquestionably.”
She wet her lips, and he realized that she was still every bit as hot as he, and far more nervous. “I … I don’t mind.”
He was stunned. “Does that mean I may take such liberties again?”
She hesitated, still hugging herself. “Yes.”
“Sofie.” He paced forward, screeched to a stop. “Sofie—you must never allow any man to kiss you in such an intimate manner! Not even me!”
She said nothing, staring, unblinking.
He fought for calm, could not find it. “I did not mean to go so far,” he said truthfully, now rueful as well.
“What did you mean, then?”
“Just a kiss, a small, sweet kiss.”
Her breasts heaved.
“Sofie?”
“Edward, I think that now is as good a time as any to ask.” Color crept up her face in waves. “What are your intentions?”
The truth would never do! She was proud and she would be furious—she would kick him out immediately. So he smiled and pried one of her arms free and tucked it in his. “My intention is to be a good friend, Sofie. A true friend—one you will not forget.”
10
Ladies did not drink, except for the occasional glass of wine at supper and perhaps a sherry afterwards. They certainly did not sip delicious French wine at noon. Sofie watched the white-coated waiter hover over her, about to pour the pale golden Chablis into her wineglass. And she declined. “I cannot.”
Edward smiled at her from across the small table. His expression was both bold and intimate. “You can’t say no,” he said. “Not to me.”
Sofie looked at him, then dropped her eyes and turned to look around them. She felt as if she were moving in a dream, she was in such a state of disbelief. The most beautiful ladies she had ever seen, it seemed, were present that day in their brightly colored tea gowns and prettily matching hats. Their escorts were the most handsome, dapper men, some in dark business suits, others in more casual yet elegant sack jackets. Yet no gentleman present was as handsome or as dashing as her own escort.
Sofie trembled slightly. It hardly seemed possible that she was sitting right now in the oh-so-famous Delmonico’s with such a man. But she was. Nor did the events of that day seem even remotely possible, but they were. Edward had seen all of her work, had not just admired it, he thought it brilliant—he thought her brilliant. He had said so.
She shook yet again. And he had kissed her, the way he had kissed Hilary, with raw and scorching and sublime passion. He had kissed her deep and openmouthed the way she had secretly dreamed of being kissed by him, and more thoroughly than she had even thought possible.
Unquestionably he was a cad. Suzanne was right. He intended seduction. And Sofie intended to be his very willing victim.
Sofie nodded wordlessly at Edward, accepting the glass of white wine. She watched the waiter pour.
Edward grinned, both dimples blossoming. “That’s my Sofie.”
Sofie looked up, shuddering with the force of her emotions, with fear, with excitement, with passion—but she must not fall in love with him, she must not. Sofie was no fool. Their affair was going to be glorious, or so she prayed, despite the fact that she was far less perfect than the other women he had known, and far less experienced. Their affair would be wonderful. She—plain, lame, eccentric Sofie O’Neil—would finally learn something of love and passion and life, it seemed. Who would have ever thought she would have such a chance—and with such a man? But it would inevitably end, perhaps sooner than later. She must not allow herself to ever lose sight of that fact, she must prepare herself for it even before they had begun. She must not allow herself to fall in love with him, no matter what happened.
Quickly Sofie reached for her wineglass, taking a sip of the almost sweet liquid, which seemed to float over her tongue as smoothly as silk.
“Good?” Edward queried, watching her closely.
“Delicious,” Sofie said truthfully. “I’ve never had better.”
While Edward ordered them a meal that they could never in a hundred years finish, Sofie look the opportunity to glance around yet again. They had a window table. The main dining room overlooked Fifth Avenue and the lush green park of Madison Square. Couples strolled on the paths below, ladies with their parasols to shield their complexions from the blazing summer sun, the men in jaunty straw hats or conservative felts. The sky was an extraordinary blue, and big, puffy clouds floated by.
And the restaurant itself was a sea of contrasts, of the ladies’ bold jewel-toned gowns, of the gentlemen’s gray wools and nearly white linens. The tables were all clothed in startling white, sparkling with crystal and silver, and each was brightly festive with a centerpiece of fresh-cut rainbow-hued flowers.
“Who is going to eat all that?” Sofie asked after the waiter had left them. “And more importantly,
who is going to drink all this wine?”
“We don’t have to finish anything,” Edward said. His tone dropped. “I want everything to be perfect for you, Sofie.”
She paused, playing nervously with her fork. Then her gaze met his. “It is perfect already, Edward,” she whispered. His stare was so intense, she looked away, taking another sip of wine. Her pulse was pounding. Clearly the seduction he had begun in earnest in her studio was continuing now. Sofie knew she should not be nervous, for Edward was undoubtedly a gentle and skillful lover. Would he want to take her somewhere private later, after lunch? Her wits seemed to scatter at the notion, her pulses soared.
“Why are you against marriage?” Edward asked.
Sofie almost lost her napkin. “What?”
He repeated the question.
Sofie stared. “That is the strangest thing to ask me just now.”
“Why? The moment we met, you declared that you never intended to marry.” Edward’s eyes were warm and amused. “That was strange.”
Sofie stared into his sparkling eyes, relaxing slightly. She had avowed her intention to remain unwed—she recalled it clearly. For the life of her, she could not fathom why she had said such a thing to a stranger, but she could guess why he was bringing up the subject now. He was not thoroughly dishonorable—Sofie had never thought that. He wanted to make sure she was not sacrificing her precious virginity to him when it should be guarded for her future husband. Sofie managed a smite. “Edward, need I remind you that I do not have suitors banging down my door?”
He was serious now, leaning forward. “So you intend to remain a spinster only because you think you cannot attract a suitor?”
Sofie flushed, eyes sparking. “There is more to it than that.”
“Is there?”
“Yes. I am completely devoted to my work. No man would be pleased to have his wife in her studio all day—and maybe all night—and you know that. Wives are supposed to run households and raise children, Edward.”
“So you are not interested in children?”
She froze. “I am not going to have children, Edward, because I am not going to many.”